


Cold War

by sator_square



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Captivity, Dubious Consent, M/M, Mind Games, Stockholm Syndrome
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-30
Updated: 2012-03-30
Packaged: 2017-11-02 18:06:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,193
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/371841
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sator_square/pseuds/sator_square
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Pre-series, Moriarty knows nothing of Sherlock Holmes. He knows only of Mycroft Holmes, the interfering government official who keeps thwarting his criminal schemes. Having become enamored with his cold, clever enemy, he decides to take him captive instead of killing him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cold War

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文 available: [Cold War 冷战](https://archiveofourown.org/works/401124) by [melnakuru](https://archiveofourown.org/users/melnakuru/pseuds/melnakuru), [sator_square](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sator_square/pseuds/sator_square)



Mycroft returned to consciousness slowly. At first all he was aware of was the chill that had fallen over his stiff body – for a brief, confused moment he had the thought that he might be dead.  
  
Opening his eyes to complete darkness didn't help matters any. He waited for his eyes to adjust, but the room remained pitch black.  
  
His feet were freezing cold; both his shoes and his socks were gone.  
  
Mycroft tried to remember where he'd been before he'd woken up wherever he currently was. He'd been... in his car, being driven home from work. It hadn't been late, but he'd felt unusually tired. He'd put it down to a long week at the time, though he was now certain he'd been drugged.  
  
He felt around in his pockets, unsurprised not to find his mobile. More checking revealed that his wallet, keys, watch, pencil, and ring were also gone.  
  
He still needed to figure out where he'd been taken. He felt around him for more information. He was on a small bed – metal frame, stuffed mattress with a rough cover, lumpy pillow. He touched the wall, jerking his hand away when he felt the icy metal touch his skin. Possibilities floated around his head – a bunker, a ship, a commercial freezer or refrigerator, perhaps...  
  
Mycroft sat up, rubbing his feet in an attempt to warm them. The small effect was ruined the moment he set his feet down on the cold floor. He refrained from yanking his feet away immediately this time, instead forcing himself to grow at least marginally accustomed to the temperature.  
  
He stood, reaching a hand up to see if the ceiling was low enough for him to touch; with his arm fully extended, it was. He found a small vent blowing cold air into the room roughly a step away from the bed, telling him he'd been right about being in either a freezer or a refrigerator – likely the latter, given that his hands and feet weren't actually frostbitten.  
  
Mycroft took another cautious step forward and bumped into a metal chair – the modern sort, plain and angular. There was a metal table immediately in front of the chair and another identical chair opposite it. He was likely to be interrogated at some point, then.  
  
The opposite wall was only two steps from the table. There was a sealed door on the right side, without so much as a crack to let in light or heat. A light switch nearby seemed promising for a fleeting moment, but the switch didn't do anything when flipped.  
  
On the left side of the wall were a sink and a toilet.  
  
Mycroft deduced that he had to be in a refrigerator, then – the water in the toilet would be at least partially frozen, otherwise. He tested the sink and found that it was functional, even if it only gave him icy water. There was a metal cup sitting on the edge; it felt clean.  
  
The sink and toilet were definitely not originally a part of the refrigerator, and from the feel of the bolts, they had been installed fairly recently. Whoever was holding him had prepared the room just for him, and they intended to keep for some time.  
  
He had no idea who it was, unfortunately. Or rather, he had too many ideas to be useful.  
  
Mycroft inspected the rest of the room for anything he'd missed.  
  
There was a security camera opposite the bed. He couldn't be certain from touch alone, but he believed it was likely one with infrared capabilities.  
  
The only other thing he found was an empty socket for a light bulb just above the table, which... puzzled him. Was his captor intending to bring the light bulb in when he was interrogated? He understood why his captors would want to keep him literally in the dark until then, but surely it would have made more sense to rewire the bulb to a switch located elsewhere. They'd had enough time to install plumbing, after all.  
  
They might have simply intended to keep him in the dark the whole time, and therefore hadn't seen the need for such effort. But if that were the case, then why the two chairs?  
  
The unusual decision was unsettling. Mycroft could deal with a smart kidnapper, a stupid kidnapper, or even a violent kidnapper; all had understandable patterns of behavior to exploit. Someone whose actions he just couldn't explain, on the other hand...  
  
Mycroft sat back down on the bed. He couldn't do anything until he had more concrete information about his situation.  
  
~*~*~*~  
  
It was difficult to tell how much time was passing. Mycroft went from sitting on the bed to lying on the bed fairly quickly – there was no point in expending extra effort just to hold himself upright. He spent the time running through what information he had that a kidnapper was likely to want from him, what true but irrelevant information he had to give away, and how best to go about faking a defection to his kidnapper's side, if necessary.  
  
It was less useful than it could have been, due to how little he knew about the people who had taken him, but it kept his mind occupied.  
  
Mycroft sat up when the door opened, raising a hand to shield his eyes from the blinding light that followed. He heard a metallic _thunk_ as something was set down on the table.  
  
His vision adjusted just long enough for him to get a glimpse of the guard retreating through the door. Male, tall and muscular, with the bearing of professional security. His clothes were plain but serviceable black trousers and a white shirt, suitable as part of a uniform but not necessary obvious as being one. The boots, on the other hand, Mycroft recognized as a specific make favored by three major security companies.  
  
However, his guard wasn't currently working for any of them, that much was clear. The clothes were well-worn and hadn't been replaced in some time. The guard had hurried in and out of the room as quickly as possible with a mildly guilty expression on his face, as though he knew he was doing something wrong, but felt he had no choice but to do it anyway. Mycroft deduced that the man had once worked for a security company, had been laid off some months back, and then recently had been approached by the kidnappers for an off-the-books job. He'd taken it without too many questions, desperate to provide for the family his simple but well-polished wedding ring showed he loved very deeply.  
  
The choice of a local, not previously criminal man for a guard was interesting. It made it likely, though not absolutely certain, that his kidnapper was also local. It also strongly implied that this was some kind of side project outside of his kidnappers' usual activities – otherwise, they'd have been able to use their regular people for the job.  
  
Mycroft was able to eliminate a large number of suspects based on the deduction, but the list was still longer and more general than he would have liked.  
  
Mycroft got only one other useful bit of information from the guard – a fleeting glimpse of the man's slightly battered digital watch had given him the time and date. It was currently 8:00, the morning after he'd been taken. He'd been held for roughly 12 hours so far, then, though he had no idea how much of that time he'd been unconscious.  
  
The guard had left behind a bowl of porridge, complete with a spoon. It didn't look especially appetizing, from the brief glance Mycroft had managed before the door closed, but at least his kidnappers were deigning to feed him. He took a tentative bite.  
  
The taste wasn't nearly as disgusting as he'd been expecting; in fact, Mycroft couldn't even claim there was a taste to be disgusted by. The porridge wasn't sweet, bitter, sour, or salty; there wasn't the slightest hint of what it had been made from in either smell or flavor. It was thick, but had no real texture to it.  
  
It was like eating a bowl of cold nothing.  
  
Mycroft didn't feel especially full after eating it, but he didn't feel hungry, either. He chased it down with a mug of frigid water and regretted it almost immediately – he now felt as cold on the inside as he did on the outside.  
  
~*~*~*~  
  
Mycroft waited patiently for his kidnappers to do something, _anything_ that would reveal the reason he was being held, but nothing notable happened.  
  
Another guard came eventually to replace the bowl with a new one. Mycroft's read of him was very similar to the other guard, though this one had a couple of pets in addition to the wife and children. According to his watch, it was 6:02 in the evening.  
  
The pattern repeated the next day, but with two other guards. After that, the four guards continued to rotate on a two-day cycle. Mycroft barely slept; the temperature made it too difficult to stay still long enough to doze off.  
  
On the fourth day, Mycroft held on to the spoon after he finished his dinner. He didn't actually have a plan that required an extra spoon, but his mind was painfully understimulated and the attempt would at least reveal how much attention his captors were paying to what he did.  
  
Anticipation of the guard's reaction kept his mind occupied throughout the night. Would the guard notice right away? Would the guard leave, notice, then come back? Perhaps not notice at all? Would the action be construed as a threat?  
  
Mycroft almost hoped it would be. People _did things_ when they felt threatened. Even a beating was starting to sound preferable to his current situation.  
  
At 8:00, the guard entered the room and set down the new bowl. He took the old bowl and turned to leave, turning back almost immediately. “Spoon,” he said gruffly.  
  
The word rang in Mycroft's ears; it felt strange to hear a voice after four days of complete silence. He slowly reached forward and handed over the spoon. “My apologies. I forgot I had it.”  
  
The guard took the spoon without comment, then left.  
  
The guard's reaction might have been disheartening, but the exchange had kept the door open for a good twenty seconds or more, giving Mycroft the first real opportunity to take in the room he was in as a whole. He didn't learn much of actual use – it didn't really matter that his mattress had blue and white stripes, for one – but he did verify that the camera pointing at him was an infrared one.  
  
He'd also managed a good look at the area outside the door. The wall opposite the door was clean and white – recently painted, in fact. The hallway ran in both directions, but it was apparent from the lighting that it didn't run far beyond the right side of the door. The section of floor visible through the doorway was covered by a large black mat, obscuring the floor itself.  
  
Mycroft frowned as he considered that little fact. There was no obvious reason for covering the floor in that area other than to prevent him from seeing it. It was disturbingly thorough – the move of someone fully aware of his powers of deduction.  
  
It was the second unsettling detail he'd found so far. He couldn't quite put his finger on why it was so unnerving, but he did know that the feeling wouldn't go away until he learned who was holding him.  
  
Preferably soon.  
  
~*~*~*~  
  
It was on the eighth of his captivity that Mycroft realized he needed to make the first move. His captors were clearly in no rush; it appeared that they were willing to wait until he broke before even bothering to ask the first question.  
  
His lazy side couldn't help but approve of the plan.  
  
It posed a few possible problems, however. While Mycroft was strong, he was also well aware of the strain he was already under, even after only eight days. Given enough time, the monotony really _would_ start to break him. He needed to convince his captors to talk to him, to give him some kind of information about why he was there, even if it meant losing the power of an indifferent facade.  
  
If he had been more confident in his ability to pull it off, he would have staged an all-out break down right there in front of the camera. However, he knew he could never manage it believably. Even putting aside the fact that his captors had thoroughly researched his personality, his pride would never allow him to make such a display of himself.  
  
Mycroft would have to attempt to end the stand off another way.  
  
He tried addressing the guard who delivered his breakfast. “Why am I here?”  
  
The guard acted as though he hadn't said anything at all.  
  
Mycroft asked the question again of the other three guards over the next two days. The non-responses were identical.  
  
Mycroft tried addressing the camera. “What is it that you want from me?” he asked.  
  
He waited several seconds, then sat back down on the bed. For a minute or so, he assumed that his words were being ignored this time as they had each other time – until the door opened, revealing the current guard with a candle in hand. The guard set the candle down on the table, then left without a word.  
  
Mycroft had only a moment to ponder this unexpected generosity before another man joined him, a large, fluffy red blanket wrapped around his entire body. Skull-patterned pajamas peeked out from under the blanket, in something of an odd contrast to the bunny slippers on his feet. The man gave an exaggerated shiver, pulling the blanket more tightly around himself. “Brrr. It really is cold in here,” he said, voice disturbingly familiar. He lifted his head and smiled at Mycroft. “Don't you think?”  
  
Mycroft normally prided himself on his ability to hide his emotions, but there was no hiding the surprise that he felt this time. “You.”  
  
“Me!” the man agreed cheerfully. “Good ol' Jim, from the Moriarty task force.”  
  
“Why?” Mycroft asked. He didn't expect a truthful answer, but a lie could be just as useful. “Were you threatened?” He joined Jim at the table, holding back a wince at the cold of the metal chair.  
  
“Oh, stop being so _dense_ ,” Jim groaned, plopping down in one of the chairs.  
  
Mycroft only raised an eyebrow.  
  
Jim sighed dramatically. “I go to all the trouble of arranging a fake arms deal in Paris, only to have you ignore my hard work and figure out the actual location based on 'unusual traffic patterns'.” He shook his hands in the air. “I bribe the head of the customs office and you catch it because of his new dental work. I arrange a car bomb for one of the idiots you work with, and then you go and notice that the air freshener isn't _quite_ where he left it.  
  
“I go to all that _effort_ and every time you see right through it. But somehow--” Jim snickered. “ _Somehow_ , you manage to spend months with me-- _months_! Working on the 'Moriarty problem', without ever noticing that I. Am. James Moriarty.”  
  
“Is that why we're here?” Mycroft asked. “Because you want me to acknowledge your brilliance?”  
  
“No, no, no. No,” Jim replied. “We're here because you are too interesting to kill.”  
  
Mycroft felt the room contracting around him. He'd been assuming a political purpose to his abduction for the most part, and even when Jim had revealed himself he'd assumed that his kidnapping served some kind of practical purpose he simply hadn't worked out yet. But it was starting to sound like Jim had kidnapped him... for fun. “What do you mean?”  
  
“You keep getting in the _way_ ,” Jim replied. “I would set those idiots happily running down the wrong trail, only to have you ruin everything, every time. Obviously, I _should_ kill you. It's not like I haven't tried!”  
  
Mycroft sat frozen in his chair. “You... tried?” Mycroft couldn't remember anything approaching an attempt on his life in the past few months, and frankly, that frightened him more than anything.  
  
“Well, _almost_ tried,” Jim replied with a sigh. “The plan was to seduce you, then kill you afterwards. But no matter what I did or how attractive I made myself, you completely ignored me. Ignored _me_. _Nobody_ ignores me when I don't want to be ignored.”  
  
“I'm sure I'm not the only person to ever find you unattractive,” Mycroft said mildly.  
  
“Oh, you aren't,” Jim replied. “But only because you _didn't_ find me unattractive. I saw the way you reacted to me. You would come _this_ \--” Jim pinched his thumb and forefinger together “-- _this_ close to bending me over your desk and then,” Jim held up his hands, eyes wild. “Nothing. You would just... not do it, for no reason at all. It made no sense.”  
  
“Most would consider it perfectly sensible not to have sexual relations with one's colleagues,” Mycroft replied, refusing to acknowledge the truth in what Jim was saying, even though the man had been fueling his personal fantasies for months. “Particularly at work.”  
  
Jim rolled his eyes. “That's what people _say_. Not what people _do_. I've had half your department begging for me within minutes, and most of those idiots thought they were straight. But you...” Jim shook his head. “ _You_ would Freeze. Me. Out.”  
  
Mycroft made a mental note to fire half of his department if he ever got out of this. “Perhaps we just aren't as compatible as you believe.”  
  
“As horrifying as that possibility is, I did consider it,” Jim replied. “But you didn't go for any of the other men I sent you, either. I'm the only one who even came _close_ to melting the Ice Man.”  
  
“If your goal is to 'melt' me, you could have chosen a better location,” Mycroft pointed out.  
  
“Oh, but that's where you're wrong,” Jim replied. “It's the perfect place. You see, no one ever truly wants to be cold all the time. Not even you.” He picked up the candle and walked to the door. “See you in the morning,” he added cheerfully.  
  
The room returned to complete darkness. Mycroft felt a little colder without the candle flame, though his rational mind knew it couldn't possibly have made the room any warmer.  
  
He lay down on the bed and considered his situation. His office had to have noticed his disappearance by now; arguably they had to have noticed his disappearance the day after it had happened at the latest.  
  
On the other hand... Jim had access to his office. He could tamper with evidence, plant whatever story he wanted everyone to believe. Mycroft had been the only one to see through the continuous false leads before; there was no reason to think his coworkers would be able to do it without him now.  
  
Pessimism wasn't helpful, however. Mycroft knew he would just have to press on, hoping for rescue and looking for any means of escape that might present itself.  
  
For now, though, he simply lay there on the bed, trying to ignore the cold enough to get some sleep.  
  
~*~*~*~  
  
True to his word, Jim brought Mycroft breakfast the next morning. It was still cold, flavorless porridge, but this time it came with the benefit of the candlelight, such as it was.  
  
Jim sat across from him, still wrapped in his blanket, sipping what looked and smelled like hot cocoa. It was still steaming, though that certainly wouldn't last for long.  
  
Mycroft couldn't help an envious glance.  
  
“Want some, Ice Man?”  
  
“No, thank you,” Mycroft replied.  
  
“Shame. It's very good.” Jim swallowed the rest of it down, then sighed in satisfaction.  
  
He left, taking the candle with him, but leaving behind a battery-powered electric razor. “You're getting a bit scruffy.”  
  
Mycroft investigated the razor for possible uses in escaping as best as he could, but found none. Even if he weren't being continuously watched, he couldn't very well take the thing apart in complete darkness. As much as he didn't relish the thought of actively making himself appealing to his captor, he hated the feeling of being unshaven even more. He managed the best shave he could without light or a mirror. Less careful men would not have fared nearly as well.  
  
Jim returned with dinner for both of them, later. Porridge for Mycroft, steak for himself.  
  
Mycroft stubbornly refused to give Jim's meal even a second glance, however much of a production Jim made of his enjoyment of it.  
  
Jim didn't leave immediately after the meal this time. “So. How have you been sleeping?”  
  
“Fairly well, thank you,” Mycroft lied.  
  
“Hmm. That's not what it looked like to me,” Jim replied, nodding toward the camera. “You were shivering all night long.”  
  
Mycroft pursed his lips. He'd tried repeatedly to stop himself from shivering, but it was involuntary – when his body got cold enough, he'd start shaking no matter what. “Given where you've been keeping me, that's hardly a surprise, is it?”  
  
“No, but I think you might need a blanket,” Jim said, snuggling his head against his own blanket with a smile.  
  
Mycroft said nothing, though the thought of having something as simple as a blanket to keep him warm was horribly appealing.  
  
“Do _you_ think you need a blanket?”  
  
“Are you offering me one?”  
  
“Mmm, no. I only have the one blanket,” Jim replied. “But I might be willing to share it with you for a little while.”  
  
“And what would I be required to give you in exchange?” Mycroft asked.  
  
Jim's face took on a hurt expression. “Nothing. Has no one ever taught you the simple value of sharing?”  
  
Mycroft clenched his teeth. He set the spoon down on the table.  
  
“The offer is still open,” Jim added, modeling the blanket like a movie star in a mink coat.  
  
“No, thank you.” Mycroft laid himself down on the bed, pointedly ignoring Jim's presence.  
  
“Very well.”  
  
Jim didn't return the next day. Mycroft spent the entire day alone in the cold and the dark.  
  
It was difficult to ignore the relief he felt when Jim came to breakfast the following morning, candle in hand. “Did you miss me?”  
  
Mycroft said nothing. He didn't look up, either, though he could smell the slice of warm blueberry pie that had entered the room with Jim.  
  
Jim pouted. “That's not very nice. I come all the way in here to talk to you, and you won't even talk back.” He pushed a bowl of porridge over to Mycroft, then started on his pie. “Mmm. This is good. You should try some.”  
  
“No, thank you,” Mycroft replied. He ate his porridge slowly; it seemed to grow colder and blander with every bite.  
  
Jim ate just as slowly, licking each bit of pie off of his fork as lewdly as possible. He left when they were both finished.  
  
Mycroft spent the next several hours wondering whether or not he would come back for dinner.  
  
He did, bringing pasta to taunt Mycroft with this time.  
  
“You can't just _sit_ there, saying nothing,” he told Mycroft midway through the meal. “Ask me questions, at the very least.”  
  
“How long do you intend to keep me here?”  
  
“Forever,” Jim replied. “Obviously. Ask something you don't know.”  
  
“How is my office getting on without me?”  
  
Jim laughed. “They fell apart the moment you left. Everything's in complete chaos! Oh, and they all think you're dead. I may have helped that one along a little bit.”  
  
Mycroft felt his stomach sink. If no one even knew he was alive-- No, he couldn't assume Jim would tell him the truth. “You're certain they all believe I'm dead?” he asked, watching Jim's face carefully.  
  
“Well, other than the man who apparently barged into the office demanding that you remove your cameras from his house.” Jim licked his lips suggestively. “Is that what heats you up, Ice Man?”  
  
“No,” Mycroft replied. Inwardly, his spirits rose, even if only a little. If Sherlock knew he wasn't dead, there was still a chance of rescue. A good chance, even. He finished his dinner a little more quickly than usual.  
  
“It doesn't really matter now, anyway,” Jim said.  
  
“Aren't you worried that he doesn't think I'm dead?” Mycroft asked, trying to gauge the level of danger his brother was in.  
  
Jim shrugged. “It's not like anyone listened to what he had to say,” he replied. “From what _I_ hear, he stormed out, claiming he intended to launch his own investigation without our help.” Jim snickered. “Your paranoid little stalker is probably scouring the streets for clues as we speak. Or maybe he's consulting the voices in his head. Who knows.”  
  
“I see.” Mycroft's hope grew even stronger. If Jim wasn't around to interfere with Sherlock's investigation, so much the better.  
  
Jim stood. “The offer to share the blanket still stands.”  
  
Mycroft refused.  
  
~*~*~*~  
  
The next month passed slowly, torturously. Jim continued the pattern of visiting one day, then leaving Mycroft utterly alone the next. Mycroft spent his non-Jim days freezing in the dark, obsessing over the next time he would see Jim. Oh, he tried to think about other things – escape, possibility of rescue – but his mind always inevitably came back to his captor, whose behavior hadn't varied at all.  
  
On the days when Jim was there, he continued to torment Mycroft with offers of food. At breakfast, Mycroft was taunted with deliciously warm sweets – pies, cakes, cinnamon rolls. At dinner, the torture was always a full, flavorful meal.  
  
The smell of the food was always overpowering, but then, Mycroft spent the majority of his time smelling nothing at all.  
  
Jim took to holding the sweets right in front of Mycroft's face when he offered them, forcing him to feel the tempting warmth radiating off of the plate. Jim offered to share the blanket after every dinner; Mycroft refused to even consider it.  
  
However, his resolve was beginning to break down. He found himself wondering exactly why he was refusing the food Jim was so intent on offering him. It clearly wasn't poisoned. Jim wasn't demanding anything for it. Did it really matter if he accepted the better food?  
  
Of course it mattered, Mycroft very well knew. If it didn't matter on some level, Jim would have simply served it to him to begin with.  
  
But this knowledge was starting to seem less and less important. On the fortieth day of his captivity, he hesitated a full five seconds before refusing. “...No. No, thank you.”  
  
Jim grinned at him. “Are you absolutely sure?”  
  
“No,” Mycroft repeated, returning to his porridge.  
  
The next time, he couldn't bring himself to refuse vocally.  
  
“Hmm? Is that a yes?” Jim asked. “I can't tell. I need you to say it.”  
  
Mycroft remained silent.  
  
“I guess not,” Jim said.  
  
Ten more days and he found himself staring at a slice of cherry pie, unable to look away.  
  
“Would you like some? It's very good.”  
  
Mycroft paused. “Yes, thank you,” he replied, as though addressing an acquaintance over tea. There was nothing to indicate that the offer had ever been a point of contention, much less that it had been one for over a month.  
  
He gave Jim his most ingratiating smile, silently waiting for some kind of catch – a previously unvoiced demand, perhaps. Or even a 'too bad!'  
  
But Jim only scooted his chair closer. “What made you change your mind?” he asked.  
  
“It seemed a shame to waste your generosity.”  
  
Jim appeared to think it over, then nodded. “It would be, wouldn't it?” He set the plate on the table in front of Mycroft, then cut off a small piece with the fork, holding it just in front of Mycroft's lips. “Open up!”  
  
That was the catch, then.  
  
Mycroft parted his lips. He'd come this far; refusing at this point would be a greater demonstration of vulnerability than complying.  
  
Jim touched the side of Mycroft's face with his free hand; Mycroft sucked in a breath of cold air in surprise. He hadn't been touched in nearly two months and even the sensation of warm fingers brushing against his jaw was enough to make him feel a bit weak – not that he allowed it to show. He hoped.  
  
And then Jim pushed the fork into his mouth, and he knew it was hopeless. The pie was warm and gooey, wonderfully sweet yet intensely sour, crust perfectly flaky. Mycroft squeezed his eyes closed, repressing a shudder at the sudden overstimulation. He chewed slowly, drawing it out for as long as possible. He didn't know if Jim's offer extended beyond one bite, after all, and he had no idea if he would ever be offered such a treat again now that he'd accepted it.  
  
He eventually swallowed, then licked his lips. He opened his eyes, forcibly returning his face to its previous impassive expression.  
  
Jim was looking at him with utter glee. “Good?”  
  
Mycroft bit back his instinctive reply of 'It's passable', realizing that Jim would know the truth whatever he said, but that future offers might well be dependent on the response. “Very good,” he admitted.  
  
“More?”  
  
“If it's not too much trouble.”  
  
Jim fed him the entire piece of pie, bit by bit. No other bite ever quite matched up to the first one, but Mycroft still enjoyed it more than he had ever enjoyed any other meal in his life. His stomach felt warm in a way he'd almost forgotten was possible after so long in the cold.  
  
Jim kept his hand against Mycroft's face the whole time. Mycroft fought the urge to lean into the touch, while also struggling not to overcompensate too far in the other direction. Jim would notice either way, and both actions would broadcast the same message, in the end.  
  
He felt the loss strongly when Jim finally removed his hand.  
  
Later, Jim offered Mycroft some of his dinner for the first time ever. Mycroft refused both it and the offer of the blanket, unwilling to give in quite that far.  
  
The next day was another non-Jim day: cold, dark, silent. _Lonely_ , if Mycroft had been willing to admit it to himself. The memory of the pie from the previous day made the non-Jim food even less appetizing, if that were possible.  
  
Mycroft continued to accept sweets from Jim; there was no reason not to now that he'd already given in. He spent non-Jim days fixated on what Jim might bring the next time he visited.  
  
On the sixtieth day of his captivity, Mycroft gave in and accepted the dinner Jim offered. There seemed to be little point in refusing the dinner when he was already accepting the sweets, even if it did mean letting Jim feed him.  
  
He still refused to share the blanket, however cold he got.  
  
On the seventy-fourth day of Mycroft's captivity, Jim didn't appear, leaving Mycroft unexpectedly alone for two days in a row. Mycroft felt almost overcome with the irrational fear that Jim was never coming back, then angry at himself for even _wanting_ him to come back, whatever the man might bring with him.  
  
He'd always thought of himself as being above Stockholm Syndrome.  
  
A third day passed without Jim, then a fourth and a fifth. Mycroft imagined what it would be like to spend the rest of his life in a cold, dark room. The same food every day. No one to talk with. No one to touch.  
  
He tried to envision a trail of clues Sherlock might be following that would lead to his rescue, but he didn't have enough information about where he was to come up with anything convincing. The longer he remained trapped, the less likely it seemed.  
  
Jim returned on day seventy-eight of Mycroft's imprisonment with a molten chocolate cake. Mycroft tried not to shake as he ate it. He mostly succeeded.  
  
After dinner, Jim offered him the blanket again.  
  
Mycroft knew he shouldn't accept, not in his current weakened emotional state.  
  
But Jim always left immediately after his offer was rejected, and at this point there was no way of knowing when he'd come back. And Mycroft had been so very cold for so very long...“I suppose there's no harm in 'sharing', as you put it,” Mycroft answered, crossing his arms.  
  
Jim clapped his hands together. “Oooh, I knew you'd agree eventually,” he said, walking over to the bed. “Lie down.”  
  
Mycroft raised an eyebrow, but did as he was instructed.  
  
Jim lay down in the limited space next to him, draping the blanket over the both of them in a wonderful layer of warmth. He kicked off his slippers, rubbing his warm feet against Mycroft's icy ones. “Brrr. You really are cold.”  
  
Mycroft didn't trust his voice enough to reply. Other men might have wept at being suddenly engulfed in comforting heat after more than two months of sitting in the cold, but he merely squeezed his eyes closed and took a long, shuddering breath. He tensed his muscles and clenched his fists at his sides to keep himself from trembling.  
  
Jim propped himself up on Mycroft's chest, leaning over his face. “Something wrong, Ice Man? You don't feel very relaxed.” He took one of Mycroft's hands; Mycroft allowed him to smooth the hand out flat. “Must be because your hands are cold.”  
  
Jim slid Mycroft's hand under the back of his skull pajamas, resting it on his back. He did the same with his other hand, bringing them into an awkward almost-hug. “There. That should help.”  
  
Mycroft let out a slow breath, forcing himself to relax. Tensing his arm muscles again would only bring them closer to an actual hug.  
  
He lay quietly, letting the heat from Jim's back flow into his hands.  
  
Jim wrapped his arms around Mycroft's shoulders, resting his head next to his neck. Mycroft felt hot breath on his skin.  
  
Mycroft waited for him to do something beyond the bounds of what he'd agreed to – a kiss, a grope, anything – but it never happened. The warmth had its effect, and Mycroft felt his body truly relax. He began to doze off, feeling more comfortable than he had in a very long time.  
  
He was on the verge of falling sleep when Jim got to his feet, ripping the blanket away.  
  
The cold air shocked him awake, and it took all the willpower he had in him not to curl up into a ball in a futile attempt to preserve the warmth.  
  
“Afraid I have to go now,” Jim said. “This was fun, though.”  
  
Mycroft turned his head away.  
  
Jim put out the candle and left.  
  
Mycroft stared in the direction of the wall, the room too dark for him to actually see it. He was bone tired, but fully awake, unable to think about anything other than the fact that Jim would be away for a whole day, if not longer.  
  
He felt colder than ever.  
  
~*~*~*~  
  
The next day was sheer agony. Mycroft spent the whole day waiting for the only signs that time was passing – first breakfast, then dinner. After dinner, he didn't even try to sleep; he just waited for the hours to pass until the next morning, when Jim would either appear with something warm and delicious, or not appear at all.  
  
He sat up in attention when the door opened, feeling his heart sink pitifully when a guard came walking in with his breakfast. The door closed, leaving him in the dark with cold porridge. He made his way to the chair, though he was in no mood to eat. Conflicting feelings made his stomach roil – worry that Jim wasn't coming back, ever-increasing anger at himself for caring, and a steadily growing alarm at his own weakness.  
  
He understood the tactics being used against him perfectly, which made his inability to resist them all the more galling.  
  
Mycroft had been stirring his porridge without eating it for some length of time when Jim came in, carrying a candle and a piece of apple pie. “I almost couldn't get away to see you today,” he said. “But I made the time, just for _you_.”  
  
“Thank you,” Mycroft replied graciously, simultaneously attempting to quash the horribly real feeling of gratitude that welled within him. “I'm sure you must be very busy.”  
  
Mycroft accepted the offer of the blanket that evening and each subsequent time it was offered. His body responded to the warmth pathetically well, in his opinion, even if it made the cold worse afterwards.  
  
Mycroft started to feel a wave of intense relief, even happiness, every time Jim came back, though he thought he hid it well enough. He hated himself for it, but to a part of him, Jim was light and warmth and food and human contact. That part was growing, seemingly indifferent to the fact that Jim was also the one denying those things in the first place.  
  
Conversely, whenever Jim left him, Mycroft felt complete and utter despair threatening to overtake him. He always knew when it was coming, too – he could feel the muscles of Jim's back shifting beneath his hands as the small man prepared to move away. Mycroft always felt a shock run through him at that point, an urge to protest, but he kept himself perfectly still, perfectly relaxed.  
  
Until the eighty-eighth day of his captivity, that is. On that day, panic ran through him the moment Jim began to move, overriding his self-control just long enough for him to instinctively tighten his arms, preventing the man from leaving.  
  
Jim chuckled into Mycroft's neck, then tightened his own embrace. “I love you, too, Ice Man.” He then let go, propping himself up on Mycroft's chest. He stared Mycroft right in the eyes while tracing a finger along his jaw.  
  
Mycroft mentally cursed his own lack of control, though there was little he could do about it at this point. Denying what he'd done would only make things worse. What was done, was done. He didn't reply to Jim's declaration, but he kept his eyes locked on Jim's and his arms where they were.  
  
They stayed that way for several moments. The staring quickly began to feel uncomfortably intimate, but Mycroft had no intention of looking away first.  
  
In the end, Jim was the one to break it off. He closed his eyes and sighed. “You know, I would love to stay longer, but I really do need to go.”  
  
Mycroft loosened his arms, then smiled his most pleasant smile. “I wouldn't want to keep you from anything important.”  
  
“Ye-es,” Jim said slowly. “Of course, there are ways you could change my mind,” he added, running his thumb over Mycroft's lip.  
  
Mycroft's breath caught in his throat. “Ways?” he asked cautiously.  
  
“Nothing serious,” Jim said lightly. He licked his lips. “A small demonstration of your affection, perhaps. The hug was nice start, but...” He shrugged.  
  
Part of Mycroft rebelled at the thought of 'demonstrating affection' for his captor, but another part was screaming at him to be practical about this, and the third part was disturbingly interested in the prospect of physical affection, regardless of the target.  
  
Jim began to pull away, forcing Mycroft to make a decision. Mycroft grabbed Jim's head and pressed their lips together, hating himself for how much he enjoyed the explosion of warmth that followed.  
  
Jim made a pleased sound. He deepened the kiss, burying his hand in Mycroft's hair.  
  
Mycroft kept expecting to feel a tongue slide into his mouth, but the kiss remained largely chaste. He was also expecting Jim's continued presence to last only as long as they were kissing, so it was a complete surprise when Jim pulled back, smiled at him fondly, then dropped back down on his chest.  
  
Mycroft's breathing slowed to normal, and he eventually drifted off to sleep.  
  
He woke the next morning to the unpleasant rush of cold that came when Jim left him. He felt groggy and not quite fully rested, as though he'd only got a few hours of proper sleep instead of a full eight. Mycroft wondered for a moment if Jim was leaving him at three or four in the morning, but the guard came in with breakfast just after he stood up.  
  
“Another time, Ice Man,” Jim declared, brushing past the guard before Mycroft could even consider responding.  
  
A few minutes after he left, Mycroft began to shiver uncontrollably. He didn't stop until Jim returned a full day later.  
  
~*~*~*~  
  
“You know, this bed is a bit small,” Jim commented a little after dinner. He reached up and tapped the bar at the head of the bed, as though to make his point.  
  
“Is it?” Mycroft asked, wary of the direction the conversation might take.  
  
“It is,” Jim replied. “It's too small to really _do_ anything in, wouldn't you agree?” He ran his thumb over the edge of Mycroft's ear.  
  
Mycroft paused. “I suppose.”  
  
“My bed is big enough for anything.”  
  
Mycroft exhaled softly.  
  
“What do you think, Ice Man?”  
  
It took Mycroft a moment to find a suitable reply. “I've never seen your bed, so I'm afraid I can't comment.”  
  
Jim chuckled. “Perhaps it's time I showed it to you, then,” he said, petting Mycroft's hair.  
  
Mycroft's heart beat a little faster. Seeing Jim's bed presumably meant seeing Jim's room – or some other room, at least. “Perhaps.”  
  
Jim gave an exaggerated sigh. “On the other hand... I don't know that I should go to all that trouble if we aren't actually going to _use_ the extra space.”  
  
Silence.  
  
Mycroft knew there were plenty of reasons to agree. It would get him out of the cold for at least a short time. He would be able to see something other than the same room he'd been held in for the past three months. He might be able to learn something about where he was. There might even be a possibility of escape.  
  
Of course, he would have to pay for these benefits. Mycroft opened his mouth, then closed it again. He pressed his lips together for a second, then spoke in as even a tone as he could manage. “I'm sure we can find some use for it.”  
  
Jim smiled, then stood, taking the blanket with him.  
  
Mycroft sat up, but didn't stand. He watched Jim, waiting for possible instructions.  
  
Jim walked out of the room.  
  
Mycroft gripped the edge of the bed, having the sudden sickening feeling that he'd given Jim what he wanted and would now be left to rot – or even killed.  
  
However, Jim returned with a sleep mask, a pair of earmuffs, and two large guards.  
  
Mycroft allowed Jim to blindfold him and muffle his hearing without protest. While not being able to take in anything about the route between the refrigerator and their destination was disappointing, the precautions were a welcome sign that Jim didn't intend to kill him just yet.  
  
The two guards lifted him up off the floor and carried him out the door, eliminating any information he might have gleaned from walking along the hall barefoot. He felt them turn left just outside the doorway, then left again after a short period of time, then right again. He felt a rush of warmth as they carried him through another doorway, then deposited him on a carpeted floor.  
  
Mycroft removed the blindfold and earmuffs immediately after the guards put him down.  
  
The relief he felt to find himself in a normal (if windowless) room was indescribable. He took a moment to breath the warm air into his lungs, then immediately scanned his surroundings.  
  
The room was roughly twice as large as the room he'd been in previously. There were several small vents on each wall, most near the floor. The room was heated so thoroughly that not even his bare feet felt cold anymore.  
  
In fact, the room was just a bit too warm for a jacket, though he made no move to take his off just yet.  
  
The carpet was a deep red, the walls a dark pink wallpaper plastered over what seemed like cinder blocks. The room was lit by fixtures embedded in the walls, but there were no visible cameras. There was also no light switch.  
  
The furniture was essentially the same as that of the other room, if in far more comfortable versions. A mahogany table and two matching chairs – with upholstered seats.  
  
The bed took up the bulk of the room. There were red sheets under the familiar red blanket, and two large pillows at the head of the bed. And, of course, there was Jim, sprawled out on the bed in nothing but his pajama bottoms, looking far more desirable than Mycroft thought he had any right to be.  
  
Mycroft would have inspected the door to the room more closely, but he couldn't very well do it while Jim was there waiting for him. For now, all he could see was a sturdy wooden door that locked from the outside. There was a second door on the side of the room, also closed. Mycroft could see a line of white tile just under the crack at the bottom.  
  
“So, what do you think of my room, Ice Man?” Jim asked, stretching out his arms.  
  
Mycroft knew that it wasn't Jim's room, not that he'd really expected it to be. The room was a complete mirror image of the room he'd been in previously, and it had been created for Mycroft just as obviously as the other one had. However, if Jim was intent on calling it his room, there had to be a reason. Unfortunately, that reason was probably that he didn't want Mycroft to consider it his room, which in turn meant that Mycroft was also probably headed back to the other room when they were finished.  
  
Mycroft hadn't expected anything else, but the thought was still depressing. “It's a fine room,” he replied.  
  
“And my bed?” Jim rubbed a hand over the top of the blanket.  
  
Mycroft walked over to the bed and sat down next to him. The mattress was wonderfully soft and thick. Mycroft ran a hand over the blanket. He wanted nothing more than to lie down and fall asleep in that nice, warm bed, but he knew that wasn't in the cards, at least not in the next few minutes. “Very comfortable.”  
  
“Hmm. _You_ don't look so comfortable, Ice Man,” Jim declared. “It's much too hot in here for clothes like those.”  
  
There was little point in arguing, especially since he really was starting to feel the heat. He removed his jacket, then laid it neatly on the edge of the bed. His tie and waistcoat followed. With the extra clothing removed, he went from too hot to pleasantly toasty.  
  
Jim fingered the front of Mycroft's shirt, quickly undoing the buttons. “Much better.”  
  
Mycroft glanced down at his own belly, not having seen himself naked in months. He'd lost a small amount of weight during his time in captivity thus far, though not in a way that made him especially more attractive. He wished he could take a shower; the fact that he'd been kept in the cold for those months was the only reason he didn't utterly reek.  
  
Jim apparently wasn't concerned with any of these problems, however. He caressed Mycroft's skin, looking at him with an expression that could almost be described as lovesick. Mycroft had no idea if it was natural or another exaggerated put-on; either choice would be equally disturbing.  
  
One thing was clear: Jim was once again waiting for him to make the first move, and he wasn't going to wait forever.  
  
Mycroft touched his fingers to Jim's chest, tracing over the lines of muscle. He really was very physically attractive, not to mention responsive – nearly every movement of Mycroft's fingers produced a pleased sound from the man's lips. Under other circumstances...  
  
Mycroft suppressed the unwelcome thought as best as he could. His goal was manipulating Jim; there was no reason to think about anything else.  
  
Keeping in mind that he might well be sent back to the cold room whenever they finished, as well as the fact that his continued survival was largely dependent on Jim remaining... enamored of him, Mycroft started with a kiss.  
  
He pressed their lips together, just barely, then slid his mouth open, sucking on Jim's lower lip.  
  
Jim moaned softly, twining his fingers in Mycroft's hair. He tugged Mycroft's shirt off, then flung it to the floor, squeezing their bodies together.  
  
Heat exploded over Mycroft's chest. He gasped, clinging to the body beneath him.  
  
Jim hummed, the sound rumbling through both of their bodies. “You don't let _anyone_ touch you like this, do you?” He ran his hands over Mycroft's bare shoulders and back. “I bet even when you do have sex it's clothes on, all business.” He sighed, the sound almost sickly sweet. “When you aren't with _me_ , that is.”  
  
Mycroft shuddered. He didn't confirm Jim's statement, though it was perfectly true. On the rare occasions he indulged himself with sex, he was always careful not to let things get too intimate. He'd considered it a source of strength, previously – there had been no risk of getting attached to any one partner purely on the basis of an unfortunate physical reaction – but it was starting to feel like a glaring weakness, a vulnerability he'd left open to exploitation.  
  
If he'd allowed others to touch his bare skin like this, it wouldn't even be an event of notice. The mere feeling of Jim's hands on his back wouldn't be sending tingles through his whole body. The feeling of Jim's chest against his wouldn't be giving him an almost giddy urge to simply melt into the body beneath him. It wouldn't feel like Jim had reached inside him and grabbed on to some long buried part of his emotions, to crush or mold or caress as the mood struck him.  
  
Mycroft sucked in a breath of air, forcing himself to calm down. Things were not so bad. Overwhelming emotions aside, his body was responding favorably to the attention. He would be more than physically able to do what Jim was asking of him.  
  
It was a good thing, in its own way. Going for too long without any kind of sexual activity was unhealthy, and he couldn't very well masturbate in his current situation.  
  
It wasn't all that different from enjoying the food, really.  
  
Mycroft sucked on Jim's neck. They fumbled with the rest of their clothes, Jim eventually ripping Mycroft's zipper in his frustration.  
  
It was over either very quickly or very slowly. Jim was just as responsive as ever, driving him on with a combination of pleased sighs, desperate moans, and debauched begging that was impossible to avoid responding to, let alone ignore. Mycroft's mind spun in the same circles over and over, going from _'This is horrifying'_ to _'This is utterly incredible'_ to _'This is horrifying_ _ **because**_ _it's so utterly incredible'_ and back again in an endless loop.  
  
His feelings didn't get any clearer after they finished. As he pulled out, Mycroft felt a muddle of intense physical satisfaction, relief that it was over, and tense concern about what Jim intended to do with him now that he'd got what he wanted. He could envision any number of scenarios from Jim killing him to Jim sending him back to the cold room to Jim demanding to be fucked a second time.  
  
It was something of a relief when Jim pulled him down under the blanket and settled on top of him, even if was far messier than he would have liked. He dozed off within minutes.  
  
Mycroft woke hours later to the sensation of Jim peeling their bodies apart. “Morning, Ice Man.”  
  
“Good morning,” Mycroft said, voice as pleasant as ever. He felt a wave of distaste at the situation, but didn't let it show.  
  
Jim looked him over. “I think you need a shower.”  
  
Mycroft couldn't agree more, but he was still wary of any suggestion made by his captor. “You may be correct.”  
  
Jim scowled. “Then again, if you don't _want_ a shower...”  
  
Sensing things were about to go very badly, Mycroft replied: “I would very much appreciate a shower.” Hopefully, it wouldn't turn out to be a cold shower or something equally unpleasant.  
  
The smile returned instantly. “Good.” Jim pulled Mycroft toward the second door. Unsurprisingly, there turned out to be a shower inside the room.  
  
There was also a toilet, a sink, and even a mirror. The floor and walls were all white tile, a relatively calming contrast to the red and pink monstrosity that was the bedroom. Mycroft glanced at himself in the mirror as Jim pulled him to the shower; he looked less dead than he would have expected. The night's sleep had done him a lot of good.  
  
The shower was stocked with his soap, his shampoo, and a few other things of his that he used frequently. They weren't _literally_ his – the bar of soap was visibly new – but Mycroft still couldn't help but wonder whether Jim had deduced what he used based on smell, or if he'd actually broken into his flat at some point.  
  
Jim turned the water on.  
  
Mycroft closed his eyes, enjoying the rush of hot water that followed. He pretended for a moment that he was at home in his own shower.  
  
The effect was ruined when Jim touched the side of his neck. “I knew you'd look good wet,” he breathed.  
  
Mycroft's eyes shot open again, giving him full view of the half-lustful, half-lovesick look on Jim's face. He swallowed, but said nothing.  
  
“It's time to get you clean,” Jim said, picking up the soap.  
  
Mycroft stood calm and still while Jim soaped him down, refusing to betray just how _good_ it felt to have someone washing the accumulated grime off of his body. It was like getting a very gentle, caring massage – by the deranged maniac holding him captive, he periodically reminded himself.  
  
It didn't help very much.  
  
His body reacted to the physical contact with distressing predictability, though Jim actually avoided touching his cock until he'd covered everywhere else. “Hmm. As much as I'd love having you fuck me again, we don't have time.”  
  
A small amount of fear coursed through Mycroft at the thought of what that statement might mean.  
  
Something must have shown on his face, because Jim hastened to assure him: “Oh, don't worry, you'll have plenty of opportunity to do it again. But for now...” Jim gave his cock a few quick, firm strokes with a slick hand.  
  
Mycroft shuddered when he came, hands reaching frantically for something to hold on to – Jim's shoulders in this case. He panted for a few moments afterward, watching Jim's pleased expression with a slow anger growing inside of him.  
  
His anger got the better of him.  
  
Mycroft pushed Jim hard into the wall, feeling a thrill at the surprise that flashed across the man's face, whatever it might cost him later. Mycroft fondled Jim far more roughly than most people would consider entirely pleasurable, enjoying every moment of seeing him writhe helplessly under the assault. Jim came with his head pressed hard against the wall, eyes closed, mouth wide open.  
  
“Fuck,” Jim breathed. He looked at Mycroft with a slightly dazed expression that slowly transformed into a grin. “I _knew_ you had actual passion in there somewhere.”  
  
Mycroft realized that he should be glad that his... outburst, of sorts... had gone over well, but he couldn't help being irritated at Jim's reaction.  
  
“I wasn't lying about not having time, though,” Jim added, squeezing a bit of shampoo into Mycroft's hair. He ran his fingers through the too-long strands, caressing Mycroft's scalp.  
  
Mycroft hated it. The sensation was more than pleasant, of course, but having Jim stroke his hair reminded him of how close he was to being a _pet_ , Jim's proclamations of love aside.  
  
Jim didn't even allow him to dry himself off when they were finished showering – he had to stand there while Jim toweled him off, then combed his hair.  
  
There were two sets of clothes waiting for them on the table when they returned to the bedroom – one of which Mycroft recognized as one of his favorite suits. It really was his suit, too. The average person would never have noticed, but he recognized the minute wear patterns on several areas of the trousers.  
  
At least Mycroft had an answer to the question of whether or not Jim had been in his flat.  
  
Mycroft nearly cringed when he saw the blindfold and earmuffs beneath the suit, but he didn't say anything. He simply got dressed.  
  
“Well, I have things to do today,” Jim said as he finished tying his tie. “You'll have to go back to your room.”  
  
And without another word, Mycroft found himself once again blinded and deafened, being carried back to the last place he ever wanted to see again.  
  
He couldn't help the sound of pain he made when his feet touched the frigid floor of the refrigerator. The guards left with the blindfold and earmuffs immediately, leaving a shocked Mycroft collapsed and shivering in the middle of the room.  
  
It was worse, so much worse than it had been. He'd grown used to the cold, in a way, after being there for so long, but after even that short amount of time in a nice, warm, well-lit room with human company, being returned to the cold, dark nothingness was unbearable.  
  
He made his way back to the bed, uncontrollable shivers running through every inch of his body. His partially wet hair hung like icicles against his ears.  
  
Mycroft tried to calm himself with the ever-fading possibility of rescue, but it felt more distant and unrealistic than ever. The only shred of comfort he found was in the thought of Jim returning in a day's time with the offer of some kind of warmth.  
  
It was starting to terrify him, how far he'd fallen.  
~*~*~*~  
After an agonizing day in the cold room without Jim, Mycroft was taken directly to Jim's room by the guards the next day.  
  
From there, they continued the game they had been playing in another location, with higher stakes. Jim days were delicious food and sex and hot showers and sleeping in a warm bed. Non-Jim days were shivering in a cold, dark room.  
  
The despair he felt when it was time to return to his room was growing exponentially. He knew it, and he knew that Jim knew it, too.  
  
He started to wonder what he would have to do to avoid being sent back there at all. He'd already given up the only real card he had – sex – just to get as much time outside of the room as he was currently getting. He had nothing left to offer.  
  
Other than a submissive gesture, of course. Based on what he'd experienced over the past few months, he knew the key to convincing Jim to let him stay might well be... asking him. Swallowing his pride, gritting his teeth, and _asking_.  
  
Mycroft loathed the idea. It felt like admitting that Jim had won, that he had complete control over him. And Jim would know _exactly_ how it made him feel, how far gone he had to be to make the request without prompting – that was one of the reasons Mycroft knew it would appeal to him.  
  
Mycroft still resisted as long as he could, however much it went against his usual pragmatic nature. If he'd asked immediately, on that first day he'd been brought to the room, the request wouldn't have had quite so much significance. However, he hadn't, and the more days that passed without him mentioning what he so obviously wanted, the bigger an issue it became.  
  
Until one morning, when the sight of the guards arriving to take him away sent him into a near panic. He stood stock still, almost completely unable to breathe. He stared at Jim, who had just picked up the blindfold.  
  
Jim walked over to him, then stopped, toying with the blindfold in his hands. “Something wrong, Ice Man?”  
  
Mycroft swallowed. It was now or never. If he went back to that room... “I had hoped I might be able to wait here for you,” he said. “Until you return.”  
  
“Hmm. Interesting idea,” Jim replied, rubbing the blindfold against Mycroft's cheek. He sighed. “But I don't know...”  
  
Mycroft clenched his fists. “I would be very grateful,” he said.  
  
“Would you?” Jim asked. “I'm just not sure it's that important to you.”  
  
“Please,” Mycroft replied, through some miracle in almost his usual voice. He reached up and took Jim's hand in his. “Jim.”  
  
It was the name that provoked a reaction. Jim's eyes went impossibly wide for a second, as though he'd never expected hear the word in wildest dreams. He grabbed Mycroft, kissing him thoroughly.  
  
Mycroft returned the kiss as best as he could without making it overly sexual. He was trying to convince Jim to let him stay _without_ the incentive of sex, after all.  
  
Jim eventually pulled away, breathless. “Yes. You can wait here.” A grin covered his face. “For _me_.”  
  
“Thank you,” Mycroft replied, his own breathing slowly returning to normal. Inwardly, he felt a profound relief at not being sent back into the cold. He had no idea if Jim's agreement would last beyond the day, but at least he had that.  
  
A guard came in to serve him his breakfast. It was still porridge, but whoever made it had apparently bothered to heat it up this time. The guard replaced the blanket and sheets before leaving.  
  
Mycroft made another effort to take in his surroundings as he ate. He'd been able to get a general read on the room as a whole the previous times he'd been in there, but this was the first time he'd been left alone there. He might be able to find something he'd missed now that Jim wasn't there to demand his attention.  
  
For instance, he was fairly certain that there had to be at least one camera in the room somewhere, even if it had been disguised. The guards were a little too accurate about picking the right moment to enter the room.  
  
A quick survey of the room found five suspicious items that were likely cameras – four in the light fixtures, one just above the bed. Any one of the cameras would have been enough to keep an eye on the entire room; the only plausible reason for the extra ones was a desire to see from every possible angle. Mycroft had the sickening thought that Jim might actually be recording him – or rather, recording the two of them, together.  
  
A survey of the shower also revealed at least three cameras, again at different angles.  
  
Mycroft felt a moment of sympathy for his brother, though his own surveillance had never been quite so invasive. He would never completely give up keeping tabs on Sherlock, but he promised himself that he'd remove his cameras from inside Sherlock's flat if he ever got free.  
  
While Mycroft was pleased with himself for finding the cameras, he hadn't found much of anything that would be of use during an escape. He could conceivably break the bathroom mirror and attempt to use the shards as a weapon, but it would immediately be seen on the cameras. The guards had guns at their disposal, so the only thing he could really do was threaten suicide, a plan that he had no reason to see succeeding.  
  
There was nothing he could do but wait and hope – and keep Jim convinced of his value in the meantime.  
  
The next month was far more pleasant than the previous one, relatively speaking. There was the usual cycling of good and bad days depending on whether or not Jim came to see him, but there was now also a baseline of comfort that Mycroft felt pitifully grateful for.  
  
Jim didn't seem to be growing any less fond of him as the days passed – on the contrary, he seemed grow more lovesick the more he saw of Mycroft. He began to make vague references to wanting to take Mycroft to other places, which Mycroft carefully encouraged.  
  
The routine was so consistent, so ingrained, that when Jim came rushing back into the room midway through a non-Jim day, Mycroft was instantly alarmed, even before he saw the blood on his sleeve.  
  
“It's been fun, Ice Man,” Jim said, then kissed him.  
  
Mycroft had never been more convinced that he was about to die in his life. He held on to Jim tightly, drawing out the kiss as long as possible to stave off his inevitable demise.  
  
But Jim pulled back and ran to the door. “I'm really going to miss you, you know that? But we'll see each other again, I'm sure.” He blew Mycroft a final kiss, then disappeared out the door.  
  
Mycroft heard the lock snick closed, but he tried the door anyway, to little avail. Hearing something out in the hallway, he took several steps back...  
  
…just in time to avoid getting mowed down by the police officers storming the room. “Hands up! Down on the floor!”  
  
Mycroft calmly did as instructed.  
  
The leader of the unit spoke into a walkie-talkie. “We've found the target. No obvious injuries.” He turned to Mycroft. “You can get back up now.”  
  
Mycroft stood, dusting off his knees.  
  
Sherlock strode into the room, looking as unfazed as ever. “Mycroft! Who was holding you?” he asked.  
  
Sherlock's DI friend – Lestrade, Mycroft thought it was – walked in after him. “Sherlock! You could at least take the time to ask the man if he's okay.”  
  
“I can see that he's fine,” Sherlock replied. “Even you can see that.”  
  
“I'll let a medic decide that one,” Lestrade said, gently taking Mycroft by the arm. “Come along, Mr. Holmes. I'm sure you'll be glad to get out of that room.”  
  
Mycroft laughed sharply. “Yes. Yes, I am,” he replied, allowing Lestrade to lead him out of the building – apparently a warehouse. They passed by several dead bodies; Mycroft recognized them as his guards.  
  
Mycroft stepped carefully as he was led to the ambulance, still barefoot. The medic gave him a blanket to wrap around himself.  
  
Lestrade went off somewhere while Mycroft was being checked out, but Sherlock hovered impatiently nearby. He came over the instant the medic was finished, ready with a zillion questions.  
  
Mycroft didn't feel like answering any questions just yet, so he asked one instead. “How did you find me?”  
  
“One of the kidnappers was careless,” Sherlock replied. “He wore the standard issue boots provided by the security company he used to work for and left boot prints at the scene.”  
  
“If that's what it was, how did it take you so long to find me?” Mycroft asked. He didn't even feel irritated, just... tired.  
  
Sherlock stood up very straight. “Your people wouldn't even acknowledge anything had happened at first. It took three days for me to even find out you were missing, then another week and a half to track down the location you'd been taken from. By then, the evidence was degraded. Even Lestrade didn't want to listen at first.”  
  
“But he did eventually, I take it?”  
  
“After I'd been forced to go over the entire scene on my own to rule all the people who had been there before and after the kidnapping, but had nothing do with it. _Hundreds_ of people, Mycroft,” Sherlock said, pride clear in his voice.  
  
“You're the only one who could have managed it, I know,” Mycroft replied. “Thank you, Sherlock.”  
  
Sherlock looked at him, startled, before continuing. “Lestrade did listen when I brought him the size and make of the boot in question. After that it was only a matter of narrowing down the pool of suspects... it just took a bit of time.” He frowned. “If your people had cooperated to begin with, I could have found you within days. It's not my fault it took two and a half months.”  
  
“I'm sure it isn't,” Mycroft said before he'd fully processed the sentence. He immediately backtracked. “I'm sorry... did you say two and a half months?”  
  
“Seventy-seven days to be exact,” Sherlock replied, looking at his brother oddly. “How long did you think you were held?”  
  
His personal estimate had been twice that – roughly five months. Then again, his estimate had been based on physical clues he'd gotten from the guards, who had been under Jim's control. The relentless repetition of the two-day cycle had only hammered it home. “It... felt a bit longer than that,” he said weakly.  
  
“That's not surprising,” Lestrade put in, walking over with a box. He set it down next to Mycroft in the ambulance. “We found these inside. Are they yours?”  
  
Mycroft saw his shoes, socks, watch, and mobile. He nodded. “Thank you, Inspector.” He put on his socks and shoes.  
  
“Unfortunately, I have to ask you a few questions, now. Do you know who is responsible for kidnapping you? Did you ever see the leader?”  
  
“No,” Mycroft lied. “I saw only my guards.”  
  
“Do you know why you were taken?”  
  
“Boring political reasons, no doubt,” Sherlock said.  
  
Lestrade turned to him in annoyance. “If you're going to interrupt--”  
  
“I'm not, actually,” Sherlock interrupted. “I want another look at the crime scene.” He strode off toward the warehouse without another word.  
  
Lestrade turned back to Mycroft. “As I was saying--”  
  
“He's right,” Mycroft said. “I never learned the specific reason I was taken, but it was likely political.”  
  
Lestrade looked a bit skeptical for whatever reason, but he only nodded and continued the questioning. “We found another room, separate from the one you were being kept in. Some kind of refrigerator...”  
  
“I was kept in there initially,” Mycroft replied. There was no point in denying it; his fingerprints would be all over the room. “They moved me when it became clear that I would remain cooperative.”  
  
Lestrade winced. He dug another blanket out of the ambulance and handed it to Mycroft.  
  
Mycroft took it. He didn't really need it, but some small part of him appreciated the gesture.  
  
Lestrade frowned. “When you say you were cooperative...”  
  
“I followed instructions and made no attempt to escape.”  
  
Lestrade didn't look entirely convinced, but he didn't attempt to explore the question further.Lestrade asked a few more questions, but wrapped the whole thing up fairly quickly. “You've been very helpful,” he told Mycroft in a 'kind policeman' voice. “Hopefully, we'll be able to get something from the tapes.”  
  
“Tapes?” Mycroft repeated. He was unable to stop the look of horror that flashed across his face, though he hid it almost immediately.  
  
Lestrade had clearly seen it. “From the security system,” he said. “They've all been blank so far, but you never know – we might luck out.”  
  
Mycroft swallowed. “I hope you do,” he said.  
  
Lestrade was still watching him closely. “Listen... you're sure this was a political thing?” he asked.  
  
Mycroft stiffened. “Why wouldn't it be?”  
  
“The room you were in was very...” Lestrade paused, looking very uncomfortable. “...red.”  
  
“Perhaps my captors had communist sympathies,” Mycroft said, face carefully blank.  
  
Lestrade snorted. “Communist sympathies?” He shook his head, but didn't press the matter.  
  
There wasn't much for Mycroft to do after that. He sat on the ambulance, watching the assorted officers go about their business. Mycroft overheard one sergeant talking to Lestrade about the complete and utter lack of evidence to identify the perpetrator; apparently she didn't entirely believe that Mycroft could have gone more than two months without learning anything about who had been holding him. “Don't you think it's weird that he doesn't want to tell us _anything_ about who had him?”  
  
“Plenty of victims refuse to say anything, especially at first,” Lestrade replied. “You know that.”  
  
The argument ended on a complete non sequitur – “You'd just think the Freak would be more concerned about his brother than showing off how smart he is.”  
  
Mycroft could only sigh.  
  
He was eventually dropped off at his flat. Mycroft knew that he'd need to find a new one now that the premises had been compromised, but he was too tired to care at the moment.  
  
He walked around his flat, hoping to feel the comfort of safe, familiar surroundings.  
  
Instead, he found that everything reminded him of Jim.  
  
He thought of Jim when he entered the flat and found it far too cold for his liking. He thought of Jim when he increased the temperature. He thought of Jim when he saw his bed and his dining table and his shower. He thought of Jim when he washed his face and when he changed into his pajamas.  
  
He thought of Jim when he disposed of the now-inedible food in his kitchen, then thought of him again as he contemplated what he should buy to replace it.  
  
He even thought of Jim when he turned the lights on and off.  
  
But worst of all, he thought of Jim when he was lying in bed, trying to sleep. His body was quite insistent that it was time for sex, but Mycroft knew exactly what he'd be thinking of if he tried to get off on his own.  
  
A cold shower solved the physical aspect of the problem, but left him feeling empty. The feeling increased tenfold when he returned bed and attempted to fall asleep without a nice, warm body on top of him. He managed it eventually, sleeping fitfully through the night.  
  
~*~*~*~  
  
Over the next couple of weeks, Mycroft did his best to get his life back to normal. He threw himself into his work, doing everything he could to repair the massive damage done by his two-month absence.  
  
He also had the cameras removed from Sherlock's flat and agreed not to put them back, to Sherlock's bafflement.  
  
And suspicion. Mycroft could tell that Sherlock knew something was off; his brother would never have invited him over for tea under normal circumstances.  
  
Mycroft enjoyed the verbal sparring, while Sherlock looked for some clue in his brother's behavior that would tell him what he was missing. He'd been especially suspicious when Mycroft had waved away the biscuits, claiming to be on a diet.  
  
“On a diet?” Sherlock repeated. “You've always been fat, but you've never bothered to go on a diet before.”  
  
“I've realized the importance of good health.”  
  
“You've also changed your soap and shampoo,” Sherlock replied, sniffing in his direction. “And you've been going to...” He squinted. “A spa? You've had a massage every day since you've been free.”  
  
“You might say I'm making up for lost time,” Mycroft replied.  
  
“Or I could say you're trying to make yourself more appealing for the eight... no, make that _nine_... sexual partners you've had in the same period,” Sherlock said, a large amount of distaste in his voice. “Your kidnappers didn't provide that for you?”  
  
Mycroft held back a wince, just barely. Sherlock still believed he'd been kept in relative comfort for the duration of his captivity, not the least because Mycroft hadn't told him otherwise. “It's just sex, Sherlock. You should try it some time.”  
  
“Please,” Sherlock replied, crossing his arms. “ _Some_ of us are above such things. I had thought you were, but clearly not.”  
  
Mycroft frowned. There was so much he wanted to say – particularly about the possible vulnerability Sherlock was leaving open by refusing to gain any sexual experience – but he knew there was no way for him to bring it up without tipping his brother off about what he'd truly gone through.  
  
There was also no way to do it that would result in Sherlock actually learning something from the words, as opposed to simply mocking Mycroft for having a weakness _he_ certainly didn't share.  
  
“Your willingness to limit your knowledge of the world will never cease to amaze me,” he said instead.  
  
Whatever Sherlock was going to say was interrupted by the sound of a heavy dance beat, coming from the inside of Mycroft's coat. _'Let's play a love game, play a love game~'_  
  
Mycroft pulled his mobile out of his pocket.  
  
“You always used to keep your mobile on silent,” Sherlock said, eyes narrowing.  
  
“I still keep my mobile on silent,” Mycroft replied. He pulled the offending device from his pocket, glancing at the number. 'ID blocked.'  
  
He hit 'ignore', feeling not a small amount of unease. He checked the settings; it was indeed set to silent mode.  
  
“So, who was it? One of your many new _friends_? ” Sherlock asked  
  
“It was no one of importance.” Mycroft put the cursed thing back in his pocket.  
  
It went off again a second later. _'Let's play a love game, play a love game~'_  
  
Mycroft turned it off without looking.  
  
Sherlock stared at him. When the phone still managed to go off a third time, he commented: “Whoever it is must really want to speak to you, brother.”  
  
Mycroft smiled, then finally answered the call. “Yes?”  
  
“Ice Man,” a voice breathed.  
  
“What is it?” he asked, mindful of the fact that Sherlock would hear his half of the conversation.  
  
“So cold,” Jim complained. “I just wanted to chat. How's your brother doing?”  
  
Mycroft felt a new fear settle in the pit of his stomach. “Fine.”  
  
“That's good,” Jim replied. “You know, we were together for months, yet you never mentioned him to me.” His tone was light, but there was an angry undercurrent to the words.  
  
“It wasn't your concern.”  
  
“ _Everything_ about you is my concern, Ice Man. _Everything_.” A pause. “Have you told him about us? About what he ruined?”  
  
“No.”  
  
“He'll have to pay for it, you understand,” Jim said. “I will utterly _destroy_ him.” He giggled. “It'll be so fun! Catch you later, Ice Man.”  
  
Mycroft put the mobile back in his pocket. He would buy a new one later. He took a sip of his tea to give himself time to compose himself.  
  
“I suppose you still aren't going to tell me who that was,” Sherlock said.  
  
For a brief second, Mycroft almost considered it. Sherlock was in danger from a dangerous criminal he didn't even know existed. If Mycroft told him, he would at least be forewarned.  
  
On the other hand... knowing Sherlock, he would just run directly into the path of the danger without so much as a plan. He'd be intrigued by the thought of a criminal mastermind targeting him, not alarmed.  
  
And Mycroft would have to tell him why Jim – _Moriarty_ – was targeting him, which he already knew he couldn't do. Ever.  
  
“Mycroft?”  
  
Mycroft realized he'd been gripping the teacup a little too hard. He set it down. “It wasn't anyone you need to worry about.”  
  
And it wasn't, really. There was no reason Mycroft couldn't handle the Moriarty problem on his own.  
  
Everything would be fine.


End file.
